Warmth of Crimson, Chill of Emerald
by aldalindil
Summary: Before they were champions of darkness and of light, they were simply Hogwarts' Head Boy and Girl: Tom Riddle and Minerva McGonagall. Fifty years of hatred and pain separate them now, but amidst the barrenness of regret, there is solace in remembrance.


  
**Author's Notes:** Thanks to Minerva McTabby, whose brilliant story "Two Worlds and In Between" inspired my characterisation of Albus Dumbledore and some of the events that occur in this fanfic. This story was started in response to the "slashers write het pairings" challenge by The Restricted Section. However, since I missed the deadline and since this story turned out to be much less explicit and much longer than I'd intended (not to mention that I am not a die-hard slasher and had already been planning a Tom/Minerva fic), it has ended up being more of a stand-alone story than a challenge response. As always, feedback is greatly appreciated.  
  
**Disclaimer:** Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Tom Riddle, Minerva McGonagall, and all other related characters and materials are property of J.K. Rowling, and no copyright infringement is intended or implied.  
  


**Warmth of Crimson, Chill of Emerald  
  
* * ***

  
  
He walked down the long staircase to the dungeons, his booted footsteps on the smooth stone making slow, measured clicks. Haste would be unseemly and would doubtless garner much speculation. Besides this, in his present state caution was necessary; a fall could do a great deal of damage to his cursedly frail body. His footsteps continued on like a metronome: Right. Left. Right. Left. His heart, ever the traitor, beat staccato, erratic wings against his ribcage. He paused and rested one pale hand against the torchlit wall, ostensibly studying a portrait of one of his Marvolo ancestors. In truth, he took a deep and shuddering breath through his nostrils, hoping the oxygen would calm the bird within his chest. He slipped his free hand into the pocket of his robes and fingered the phial of potion he had brought with him. Warmed by its contents, the slick surface of the glass beneath his touch felt almost like a living thing.  
  
He snorted softly as he removed his hand from his pocket, scorning himself for entertaining such a fancy. The illusion of life indeed. As he continued down the stairs, though, the thought clung to him like the shadows clung to the cracks between the stones. The illusion of life, when life is absent. Was that not what he was trying to achieve, beyond all else, with this entire...experiment? He shook his head in sharp denial, his long fingers curling into a fist at his side. This was business, vengeance even, but nothing more.  
  
As he arrived at the plain wooden door that was his destination, however, a tiny voice in a distant corner of his mind cursed repeatedly in every language he knew. He cursed the Potter boy for destroying his body years ago, cursed Potter's blood for, more recently, not being enough to make him whole again. He cursed his own body for the weak, pale monstrosity it had become. Lastly, and vehemently, he cursed _her_ for making him think such thoughts. He shook his head again in rejection of his own desires, in denial of her, and pushed the door open with rather more force than was necessary. He was Lord Voldemort, and he would not feel regret.  
  
Two long steps brought him into the room, and he paused to close the door behind himself before turning to survey his surroundings. The room itself was a simple, small cell consisting of grey stone walls, ceiling, and floor. A single candle illuminated the darkness, and the table it was attached to by thick clots of wax was the only furniture in the room, apart from a narrow bed. Windowless except for a tiny slit near the ceiling, the room stank of a week's worth of sweat, fear, overcooked food, and the natural human results of eating and drinking. The tight skin covering what remained of his nose wrinkled fastidiously as Lord Voldemort turned to the bed. It was a structure of rusted metal and sharp angles, the cheap sort used in hospitals and other institutions. A thin, stained mattress rested on the bedsprings; it was covered with a greyish piece of ripped cloth that looked as if it once might have been a green blanket. The air in the room was cold but stale, and the faintly metallic stench of old blood hung over everything else. Lord Voldemort wrinkled his nose again, reminded of why he let Malfoy, Rosier, and his other servants take care of the less pleasant aspects of his work. He personally preferred an almost obsessive level of cleanliness, and it was a rare occurrence indeed for him to grace the lower levels of his stronghold with his presence. The upper floors of the ancestral home of the Marvolos were filled with rich tapestries, thick carpets, and other niceties. The dungeons, this chamber, were incongruous. Incongruous, but then, so was she.  
  
_She_ was lying on the bed in a drugged slumber, precisely as he had ordered Wormtail to have her prepared for him. She lay still as death, but even in sleep she looked as though she should be resting upon the finest silks and velvets. She was regal despite her stained robes, torn stockings, and the smudge of dirt high on one cheekbone; this room and the filthy bed were beneath her. He took a step closer to the bed, transfixed by the way the tight, orderly coil of her hair contrasted with the angry pink cut running haphazardly across her knuckles, the way her heavy tortoiseshell spectacles belied the graceful sweep of dark lashes against the pale curve of her cheek. He admired her posture in sleep: straight and stiff with her arms folded over her chest when an indelicate sprawl would have suited her accommodations so much better. She was a fascinating study in contradictions, and he drank her in as though she were water. With another sharp jerk of his head, Lord Voldemort chastised himself yet again for allowing her to affect him so. He was the most powerful man on earth, and he would _not_ allow her to pull him in like the tide.  
  
He withdrew the potion from his robes with a scowl and uncorked the phial, trying not to stiffen as the red liquid gave off a strong odour of toffee, a scent he had always identified with Albus Dumbledore. Ignoring the fumes, he crossed to the bed and roughly forced her mouth open with his fingers. He then tilted her head up, poured half the potion into her mouth, and massaged her throat to make her swallow. He raised the phial to his own lips and drank the remainder of the potion, shuddering at the syrupy taste, before re-corking the container and returning it to his pocket. At last, he seated himself on the edge of the bed and gingerly took one of her hands in his. Several moments passed in silence before Lord Voldemort spoke, and when he did it was in a gentler voice than any of his Death Eaters had ever heard. "Oh, Minerva..."  
  


*** * ***

  
  
"Well done, Mr Longbottom. Three points to Gryffindor," Albus Dumbledore said quietly as he knelt to examine the large green toad that had until moments ago been an ordinary piece of parchment. The Transfiguration instructor then smiled up at Algernon Longbottom, who wore a look of intense relief. "Shall I transfigure him back, or would you like to keep him?"  
  
Algernon, a tall and stocky boy with pale brown hair, smiled down at the toad proudly. "Oh, I'd like to keep him, sir!" he said earnestly.  
  
Dumbledore chuckled and picked up the toad before standing. His blue eyes sparkled with mirth as he placed the amphibian ceremoniously into Algernon's waiting hands. "There you are, my boy." Algernon beamed at the toad, who blinked back at him and smacked his lips wetly.  
  
Watching them, Minerva McGonagall tried not to roll her eyes at Algernon's complete and utter lack of an imagination. Honestly, a _toad_? She hated to think ill of any of her housemates, and Algie was pleasant enough, but sometimes she suspected the chubby Beater had taken one too many Bludgers to the head. Still watching with amusement as Algie smiled angelically at his warty new friend, she jumped when she felt an elbow nudging at her ribs. She turned slightly to see a dark head bending down towards her.  
  
"Think he's going to kiss it and turn it into a princess?" the boy next to her whispered. Minerva's lips twitched, but she turned to Tom Riddle and shook her head disapprovingly. Tom merely raised an eyebrow, but then he shrugged and turned back to the front of the classroom. Minerva did likewise, just in time to see Algie resuming his seat, the toad clutched tightly to his chest. The toad's long, pink tongue shot out and licked its pale green lips as she watched. Naturally, the image of Algie kissing the toad sprang to mind, and Minerva choked, trying not to laugh. She felt rather than saw Tom's smirk and cursed him silently for distracting her during her favourite class.  
  
Professor Dumbledore turned at the sound and looked at her over his gold-rimmed spectacles. "Yes, Miss McGonagall?"  
  
Minerva's cheeks grew hot with embarrassment. "Erm, nothing, Professor. I was just... going to volunteer to go next, if I may." It was not exactly a lie; she _had_ been planning on offering to perform the required exercise after Algie was finished. Or she had been before Tom made her disrupt the class, at least.  
  
Luckily, Dumbledore did not seem to notice her slight hesitation. He smiled at her fondly and gestured with a blue-robed arm to the clear space at the front of the room. "Of course. A sheet of parchment to any animal you like, in one minute or less."  
  
Minerva nodded and stood, taking one last glance at the pile of her extensive notes arranged neatly on the desk. This would be the most difficult transfiguration she had ever attempted, and she wanted to be certain of every detail. She ran a hand down the long, wayward mass of her hair and pushed a few stray curls behind her shoulders before walking confidently to the front of the classroom. Professor Dumbledore stepped aside as she approached and chose a sheet of parchment. Minerva set the parchment on the stone floor, straightened, and looked up at the tall professor, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips. "_Any_ animal, sir?"  
  
Professor Dumbledore returned the smile, raising an auburn brow at his favourite student. "I believe that is what I said, Miss McGonagall."  
  
She nodded, drawing her wand from the sleeve of her robes and turning her attention back to the parchment, feeling a flutter of anticipation in her stomach. This was going to be fun! Minerva closed her eyes and squared her shoulders, blocking out the soft sounds of the classroom and clearing her mind as she waited for Dumbledore's permission to begin. "You have one minute, beginning...Now!"  
  
As soon as he spoke, she took a deep breath and began envisioning the change that would have to take place, watching the pictures flow through her mind like water. Bone-white parchment would become bone in truth, thick and heavy, perfectly formed. Bone would be covered by lithe muscles, blood vessels, nerves... Each soft organ would need to be secreted away in the cavities of chest and abdomen, and it would all be clothed in sensitive skin... Fur would prickle out, thick and warm and tawny, as crimson blood would begin to flow hot through the veins... Lastly, it would be given a mind, a life, and its huge golden eyes would sparkle with intelligence as it took its first breath. It would all happen faster than the blink of an eye. Minerva raised her wand, seeing the change over and over in her mind and thinking of the wild, glorious, _tame_ creature of red and gold she would create. She gathered up the power she felt thrumming through her soul, snapped her wand down, and released. It was effortless, exhilarating, magnificent... _this_ was why she lived.  
  
Minerva heard several girls in the front row gasp, and Bartemius Crouch murmured something that sounded suspiciously like, "Oh, bloody hell!" She took a shaky breath and opened her eyes, ignoring the wide eyes and open mouths of most of her classmates in order to look down at the floor where the parchment had been. Four enormous paws rested on the stones instead, and her gaze travelled up tawny legs and flanks, taking in its— _his_— long, twitching tail, auburn mane, aristocratic nose, and gleaming golden eyes. He regarded her levelly, and Minerva was unsure whether she should laugh in delight or cast Petrificus Totalus as fast as possible. Regardless of what reaction was proper, however, she was a Gryffindor to the core. She merely smiled at the lion, hoping she did not look as idiotic as poor Algie had, and turned to look up at Professor Dumbledore.  
  
He, too, regarded her levelly above his long nose, wearing an expression markedly similar to that of the lion. Minerva could not help but smile as she noticed Dumbledore, with his somewhat craggy features and long mane of auburn hair— even though it was presently tied back neatly with a leather thong— had a much more leonine appearance than she had previously realised. Her smile faded after a moment as Dumbledore turned and simply stared at the great cat in silence. She wanted to ask if she had done something wrong, or if a lion was somehow improper after the parade of toads, cats, and small rodents that had preceded it, but something in the professor's expression made her hold her tongue. He seemed to be looking at the lion, but Minerva had the impression he was...elsewhere. Deep in thought, perhaps, or examining a memory. At last, he looked down at her and smiled softly, his eyes shining with pride, affection, and the faintest hint of sorrow, though Minerva could not fathom why. "Ten points to Gryffindor for a perfect— and ambitious— transfiguration," Dumbledore said. He then raised an eyebrow and added, "And an additional two points for such a noble representation of your House's mascot, Miss McGonagall."  
  
Minerva wanted to laugh with delight and relief, but she settled for giving her Head of House a brilliant smile. "May I keep him, sir?"  
  
Dumbledore returned her smile and reached fearlessly to run his long fingers through the lion's mane before replying. "He will be allowed stay here until the end of the lesson, at which time you may take him to Professor Kettleburn."  
  
"Thank you, Professor." Before resuming her seat, Minerva gave into temptation and gently stroked the lion's— _her_ lion's— cheeks and mane for a moment. He slitted his eyes closed and leaned his great weight into her hands, making a deep rumbling noise in his throat. Hearing the magnificent cat purr at her touch awed Minerva, but she reluctantly gave him one last pat on the head in promise of more to come later as she headed back to her desk.  
  
She sat down, still glowing with her accomplishment, and smiled over at Tom. To her surprise, his blue eyes glared back at her, dark and hard beneath lowered brows. Minerva quickly looked towards the front of the classroom, feeling his rejection keenly. Professor Dumbledore stood next to the lion, looking out at the classroom. "Ah, yes," he said at last, as if answering some question posed to himself, "Tom Riddle has not yet given a demonstration." He gestured to the clear space in front of himself. "Mr Riddle, if you would?"  
  
Minerva stared straight ahead as he rose and moved away from their shared desk and then watched his back as he walked away from her. She could tell from the rigid set of his shoulders he was most displeased about something, her success perhaps. After all, he did not like to be bested. The rivalry between them was legendary and had been so since their first week at Hogwarts. Even though they were no longer enemies, their ongoing competition was still as fierce as ever. Minerva watched as Tom came to a stop in front of Professor Dumbledore and ran a pale hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. He then drew his wand from the sleeve of his black robes in a smooth motion, the yew gleaming softly in the afternoon sunlight pouring in through the classroom windows. Tom raised his wand and levitated a piece of parchment from the desk to the floor before turning to the professor. "I'm ready, sir."  
  
Dumbledore nodded, gesturing to the parchment. "You have one minute, beginning...now!"  
  
Minerva leaned forward slightly to watch with the familiar mixture of fascination and confusion she always felt when comparing Tom's transfigurations to her own. During a transfiguration, she always closed her eyes, letting the change flow like liquid through her mind. The power came from somewhere outside of her, from the very air, the earth, and it caressed her skin as it entered her. It wound like tendrils of gold through her mind and senses, pumped hot and red with the steady thrum of her heartbeat, filled her as if she was a clear vessel brimming with light. She released it through her wand, and the power steamed out, changing the object with the images of her vision. The details flowed after one another in a seamless, effortless change, leaving her empty and exultant. With Tom, though, it was different.  
  
After Dumbledore's order to begin, Tom kept his eyes open and focused on the parchment as he raised his wand high. He swept his wand down without a second's hesitation, and a tangible bolt of power shot out. There was no fluidity, no graceful melding of one object into another. Instead, the object was simply one thing, and then it was not. If Minerva's transfigurations were liquid gold, Tom's were lightning; silvery blazes of power that were sharp and quick and hard. Minerva had asked him once about the process, and he said there was no gentle flow, no feeling of ecstasy. He described Transfiguration as reaching out and grasping for power, forcing it through his wand and commanding the object to change. It should have been an inconsequential difference between them, but Minerva had always been disturbed by it.  
  
The power blazed out of Tom's wand, and the piece of parchment was instantly a large black serpent, coiled lazily with its scales shining in the sunlight. A few of the girls in the front row squealed with disgust and fear, but Minerva smiled slightly at his choice of animal. He had probably been planning on transfiguring a snake all along, she conceded mentally, but at least she had done _her_ House's mascot first. Minerva glanced at her lion, thinking of him, and was pleased to see he did not seem to mind the presence of the adder in the least. He was looking out at the classroom, watching her with love and acceptance. Minerva met his amber gaze with her own green eyes, feeling a rush of pride and love so strong it almost took her breath away. She had always adored animals, especially cats, and for a cat so huge and wild and magnificent to be _hers_ infused a feeling of awe within her. She could hardly wait to spend more time with her lion and hoped Professor Kettleburn would see fit to keep him until the end of the year, when she could perhaps even take him home to her family's farm.  
  
Tom ignored both the lion and the students and simply folded his arms across his chest, watching with a challenging expression as Dumbledore bent slightly to examine the transfigured serpent. He straightened after a few moments and gave Tom a long look over his spectacles. Minerva sucked in a quiet breath as Tom stared back and quirked an eyebrow insolently. To her relief, Professor Dumbledore either did not notice or chose to ignore it, for he gave Tom a small smile. "An excellent transfiguration, Mr Riddle, though perhaps next time a more challenging choice of animal would be more appropriate. As it is, however, your serpent is flawless. Ten points to Slytherin." He then turned to the class and smiled again. "Please remember to read chapters seventeen through twenty-four of Master Switch's biography before our next meeting. Class dismissed."  
  
The students made their customary mad dash to the door, lead by the group of girls who were most anxious to distance themselves from both lion and serpent. Minerva, not inclined to push her way through a crowd, waited until most of the students had left, taking the time to place her books, ink, quills, and notes neatly in her bag. When the room was empty save for Professor Dumbledore, Tom, and the beasts, she stood and walked to the front of the classroom to retrieve her lion. Dumbledore smiled warmly at her as she approached. "That was an outstanding effort today, Miss McGonagall."  
  
Minerva felt the blood rush to her cheeks, but she could not help but smile back, sneaking a quick glance at her lion. "Thank you, Professor. May I take him to Professor Kettleburn now?"  
  
"Certainly."  
  
"Excuse me, sir," Tom interrupted, walking over from his desk where he had been packing his books, "but may I keep _my_ transfiguration, as well?" He crossed his arms over his chest as he looked at Dumbledore, his eyes cold and challenging.  
  
Dumbledore looked down at the adder, who was still dozing peacefully on the flagstones. His ruddy brows knit as he turned his gaze back to Tom and slowly shook his head. "I am sorry, Mr Riddle, but Professor Kettleburn dislikes snakes immensely. And I regretfully cannot allow you to keep such a dangerous creature for a pet." He then gathered up his books and parchments with a flick of his wand and began to walk towards the door. "I trust you will dispose of the serpent immediately. Good afternoon to you both." The door shut behind him with a soft thump, leaving Minerva and Tom alone with their beasts.  
  
Minerva shifted the strap of her bag on her shoulder and looked over at Tom. "I'm sorry..." she began, but trailed off, not knowing what to say.  
  
He stood rigid, looking at the closed door with a venomous expression. "I'm so _terribly_ sorry you're in Slytherin, Mr Riddle," he said in a reasonable impression of the Professor's deep voice, though the sneer upon his features would have been very out-of-character for Dumbledore. "Such a pity I must be an insufferable, pompous ass at all times. In fact, I must even regretfully add that I feel a dire compulsion to favour students of my own _exalted_, noble, spectacular, and generally bloody fantastic House above all others, but _most especially_ those slimy worms who reside in Slytherin."  
  
Minerva snorted, torn between anger and amusement. "Oh, Tom," she said, crossing to put a hand on his arm, "he doesn't favour us, really. He's very fair, in fact. You just don't see it because you dislike him."  
  
Tom jerked away from her touch, turning to her angrily. "Do you think it's fair he gave you two extra points _and_ agreed to let you keep it because you transfigured the Gryffindor mascot?"  
  
She arched an eyebrow. "The fact that a lion actually _is_ a more difficult exercise than a snake had nothing to do with it, I take it?"  
  
He shook his head, pointing a long finger at the snake. "It's harder than it looks. It's...subtle. The venom composition has to be correct, and the skeletal and muscular structures are different than a creature with legs, and the texture of the scales has to be perfect..." A cold smile came over his face as he looked over at the two creatures. "Dumbledore _did_ have a point, though."  
  
"And what's that?"  
  
Almost lazily, Tom leaned down to the adder and quietly hissed at it. He jerked back as the snake immediately tensed, hissed, and then shot upwards to sink its fangs into the lion's throat. The lion let out a roar of surprise, its shaggy head rearing back in pain. Minerva cried out, watching numbly as Tom waved his wand at the snake, returning it to a harmless piece of parchment. He then turned to her and smirked, putting his wand back into his sleeve. "He was right. It _was_ far too dangerous to keep as a pet." Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and strode out of the classroom.  
  
When he had gone, Minerva dropped to her knees beside the lion, who had fallen onto his side and lay gasping for breath. Half-blinded by tears, she stroked his velvety muzzle with one hand as she reached for her wand with the other. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, and then she shakily waved her wand and returned the lion to a piece of parchment. She picked it up gently and put it into her pocket before standing and dashing out of the classroom after Tom.  
  
Minerva raced through the corridors, still crying a bit, until she finally caught up with him in the wide hallway outside of the Charms classroom. Heedless of the group of first-years coming out of the room, she grabbed the strap of his bag and jerked him to a halt. Tom turned to her, his face expressionless. "Yes?"  
  
"How _dare_ you?" she whispered, clenching her hands into shaking fists at her sides in an effort to control her temper.  
  
He shrugged slightly. "I wanted to make a point."  
  
Minerva could feel herself going red, but she fought to keep her voice down. "You wanted to make a _point_? About what, the fact that you hate Professorr Dumbledoorre? Gryffindors in general?" Out of the corner of her eye, Minerva noticed the first years had stopped to stare at them, and a number of older students from various houses had joined them. She could not blame them, really— a row between the Head Boy and Girl, Hogwarts' golden couple, was not a thing to be missed. Noticing her normally suppressed Scots accent was becoming thicker by the second, she continued. "What of it, Tom? D'you think we _all_ dinna ken that you've had a grudge against the Professorr for yearrs? D'you think we dinna _know_ you want to be the best? Aye, you're a Slytherrin, that's what you live for. But was it _really_ necessarry to kill a puir innocent crreature like y'did?" She stopped abruptly and stood glaring up at him, shaking and slightly breathless.  
  
Tom, who had stood silent throughout her tirade, reached up and set his hands gently on her shoulders before bending his head so his face was level with her own. His eyes smouldered like blue embers as he looked at her intently. "I do not hate Gryffindors, Minerva," he whispered, his lips a hair's breadth from her own. "In fact, my feelings towards one Gryffindor in particular are rather the opposite." He smiled softly and reached up to stroke a finger along her jaw. "Especially when you're angry. You get all flushed, and your hair bristles out..." His smile became a smirk. "...Och, and y'sound like a wee barrrking terrrier. Barking being the operative word, of course."  
  
Minerva smiled in spite of herself, feeling some of the tension melt out of her shoulders. "I'm _not_," she murmured, "unless it's because I consort with a Slytherin."  
  
He leaned forward to brush his lips against hers. "_Are_ the consort _to_ a Slytherin. Don't forget it." She laughed and playfully pushed him away, and he raised an eyebrow. "Oh, so it's like that, is it, _Miss_ McGonagall?" he said, raising his voice for the benefit of their audience. "A duel, then, to see who is the best, once and for all?"  
  
A first year Hufflepuff gasped quietly, clearly assuming their whispered "argument" had led to this challenge. Minerva's lips twitched, but she arched an eyebrow and pulled her wand. "Gryffindor against Slytherin, defending the honour of our Houses? I accept." She almost choked with laughter to see the smile playing around Tom's lips, but kept her voice steady as she glared at him. "And the stakes?"  
  
He pressed a fist against his mouth, ostensibly in thought, but she knew it was so he would not betray himself in front of the wide-eyed students surrounding them. After a moment, he lowered his hand to his side and quirked a dark brow at her. "If it's the honour of our great Houses we're defending... If I win, you will wear robes of Slytherin green to the Yule ball, and at every opportunity thereafter, until I declare it otherwise."  
  
Minerva shrugged and pushed her hair behind her shoulders. He had always said green suited her, and she really quite liked the colour. "Agreed. If I win?"  
  
He drew his wand and shrugged. "I think we needn't worry about that unhappy occurrence." A few of the Slytherins in the crowd snickered, causing Tom to turn and wink at them. "If by some miracle you _do_ manage to best me... I promise to attend every Quidditch match for the remainder of the year. I'll even sit in the Gryffindor stands. Will that be satisfactory?"  
  
Minerva could not help grinning at this. She had been Gryffindor's star chaser since second year and captain since fifth, but even though they had been together for over three years, Tom had managed to evade every single match.  
  
"Indeed." She shifted her grip on her wand and took a few steps backwards so there would be adequate space between Tom and herself. The crowd surrounding them stepped back as well, and Tom handed his bag to a nearby Slytherin fourth-year. Minerva set her school things on the floor in front of a few Ravenclaw second-years and then turned back to face Tom, reaching up to push her errant hair out of her face yet again.  
  
He gave her a cool smile as he pushed up the sleeves of his robes. "Very well, then. Who's your second?"  
  
Minerva's brows knit as she surveyed their audience, but she relaxed slightly when she saw a familiar, if homely, face above the rest of the crowd. The boy made eye contact with her and nodded, as she had known he would. "Alastor Moody. Yours?"  
  
Tom scanned the crowd disdainfully, causing several hopeful-looking young Slytherins to visibly wilt. At last, he nodded curtly and pointed to a boy Minerva knew only vaguely. "Frederick Ollivander." Ollivander jumped, but he obediently came forward to stand behind Tom, looking pale and nervous. Alastor had already stepped up to back Minerva.  
  
"I don't care how many times you've duelled him, Min," Alastor whispered, his shaggy hair falling forward to tickle Minerva's cheek, "but he's still a Slytherin, and they're a slimy lot. Be on the alert!"  
  
Minerva shook her head with amusement and pushed her friend away. "Stop _worrying_ so much!" she hissed. He sighed audibly, muttering something about the necessity of constant vigilance, but stepped back into his proper place. Minerva looked at Tom and held his eyes for a long moment before bowing curtly and raising her wand to shoulder-level.  
  
"On the count of three," Alastor said quietly, causing the chattering students around them to fall silent. "One... Two... Three!"  
  
"_Serpensortia_!" A tremendous green serpent shot out of the end of Tom's wand and slithered towards Minerva.  
  
"Predictable," she called, transfiguring it with a flick of her wrist. The snake became a Bludger and headed for Tom's head.  
  
He dodged it, waved his wand, and transfigured the Bludger into a large black butterfly with one smooth movement. "Oh, and that wasn't?" He smirked. "Watch out; it's poisonous."  
  
Minerva ducked as the butterfly flew towards her. "Clever," she muttered, simultaneously transforming the butterfly to a pebble and banishing it to the library. She straightened quickly and pointed her wand at Tom's right hand. "_Engorgio_!"  
  
Tom's wand-hand immediately began to swell. Minerva was about to summon his wand when he deftly grabbed the wand with his left hand and cast a reducing charm. He raised an eyebrow at her as he returned his wand to his right hand. "Ambidextrous, remember?"  
  
"Damn you," Minerva hissed. While she normally quite enjoyed his talented hands — and what he could do with them — now was neither the time nor the place to think of such things.  
  
Time seemed to cease its flow around them as they continued. Equally matched, or nearly so, they found in one another a worthy opponent. In truth, they were one another's only worthy opponents. Among the students, at least. Minerva's spells — complex sequences of charms and hexes designed to distract him so she could get his wand — were thwarted almost without fail, and she managed to block nearly all of his attempts to weaken her to the point of no resistance. Some spells managed to get through, of course, but both Tom and Minerva were skilled at healing charms — or strengthening charms, in his case — and the effects were minimal.  
  
At length, though, Minerva began to tire. Not only that, but she was also running out of spells. She'd cast the usuals, of course — the Jelly Legs Jinx, _Rictusempra, Obliviate, Arachnominus_ (this one was particularly mean, since Tom hated spiders) — and on top of that, she'd transfigured his socks to pickled herrings, his undergarments to thistles (or had _tried_ to; he'd blocked that one rather quickly), charmed his hair so it felt like it was being pulled by pixies, and made his fingernails turn fuchsia at least twice — but she was quickly reaching her limits. Tom had cast all the usual low-level curses, tried a severing charm on her hair (she'd blocked that one, thankfully), transfigured her necktie to a copper-coloured snake who'd flicked its tongue at her collarbone before she'd changed it back, and banished her knickers to Norway. Well, almost. Minerva had barely blocked it in time; judging from the...less covered...sensation in certain areas, she had a feeling she was decidedly _not_ clad in the sensible cotton ones she'd donned that morning.  
  
Minerva looked up after blocking his latest attempt to sever her arm at the wrist, and, to her relief, Tom looked as if he was tiring as well. His normally pallid cheeks were flushed, and his dark hair was mussed, though that could have been as much from the pixie-pulling charm as from exertion.  
  
"Do you yield?" he called, his eyes sparkling.  
  
Minerva laughed breathlessly and reached up to brush her damnable unruly hair out of her eyes. "Never!"  
  
"Very well, then," Tom said, so softly she had to strain to hear him and sounding suddenly serious. He took a measured step forward and levelled his wand at her. "Cru—"  
  
Minerva screamed and jumped to the side, feeling a hot jolt of pure terror rip through her. As she did so, she tripped over the strap of her school bag and landed heavily onto her knees. Her long, black, curly, and generally _bothersome_ hair fell into her face yet _again_, and she frantically struggled to push it off her sweaty brow and cheeks so she could see.  
  
A soft, self-satisfied chuckle sounded over her head. "_Accio wand_." Minerva didn't have a chance to tighten her grip before the wand flew out of her hand.  
  
She managed to shove the last stubborn tendrils from her forehead in order to glare daggers up at Tom, as all of the Slytherins— and quite a few of the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs — surrounding them began to applaud.  
  
"That wasn't funny."  
  
He smirked and shrugged. "I wasn't going to _cast_ it."  
  
"Regardless, it was still a sneaky, underhanded, utterly _Slytherin_ thing to do," she snapped. "Bastard."  
  
"I was merely taking advantage of the current situation," he replied, grinning as he extended a hand to help her up.  
  
Minerva, of course, disregarded the offer of assistance and climbed to her feet unaided. She glared at Tom again as she gathered her hair in her hands and viciously twisted it into a thick rope.  
  
"I am never, _ever_ again going to lose a duel because of my _hair_!" she spat through clenched teeth as she knotted her hair at the base of her neck.  
  
Tom laughed, shifting both wands to one hand before reaching up to pat an errant curl into place. He stepped back and looked her up and down. "Very nice. Very...formal. It'll go well with the green robes you'll be wearing at the Yule Ball."  
  
Minerva arched an eyebrow. "Who says I'm going?"  
  
Tom reached out and placed her wand in her hand. He closed her fingers around it, lifted her hand to his lips, and brushed a gentle kiss against her knuckles. "I do."  
  
Her lips curved upwards in a smile. "Well, in that case..." She bent to pick up her things, straightened, and looped her arm through his. "You _will_ pay for what you did, though."  
  
Tom raised an eyebrow and smiled at her as he accepted his bag from the student who proffered it. "I rather thought I'd...make it up to you." It was amazing, really, the way his eyes could smoulder like that, promising so very much.  
  
Minerva had to swallow hard before she could speak. "Very well, then." She hoped anyone who might be watching would chalk her pink cheeks up to an after-effect of the duel.  
  
She nodded absently to Alastor and Frederick and then followed as Tom led her through the dispersing crowd. They walked down the hallway in silence, and it was only when they'd turned and gone down the first spiral staircase leading to the dungeons that Tom spoke. "My room, I suppose?"  
  
Minerva smiled and squeezed his arm. "You won, so it's your choice."  
  
"My room it is, then." He bent his head and touched his lips to hers, hitching his bag up on his shoulder as he gathered her into his arms.  
  
Her arms snaked up and wrapped around his neck as she pressed herself against him and parted her lips. Tom's tongue traced her lips gently and then slid between them.  
  
Minerva inhaled shakily through her nose as she circled his tongue with hers and twined the hair at the nape of his neck through her fingers. His lips moved against hers, and she responded in kind, half-biting, moving away, and then pressing close once more.  
  
He pulled back after a moment, scraping his teeth slowly over her bottom lip as he withdrew. "Shall we?" he asked, a bit breathlessly.  
  
Minerva could only nod.  
  
They walked to the Slytherin dormitories as fast as propriety would allow and then headed for the Head Boy's room private room. Minerva muttered something about a "special Potions project" when they passed a group of curious-looking Slytherin boys in the corridor. Not that she particularly cared what they thought. At the moment she was concerned with how, precisely, she would ask Tom to "make it up" to her. Concerned with mind, body, and soul, in fact — emphasis on "body."  
  
Tom hissed the password at his door — it was warded, with the password in Parseltongue, of course — and shut and spell-locked it as soon as they'd stepped inside. His schoolbag dropped to the floor with a dull "thump," and his lips found hers again immediately. His hands alighted upon her shoulders and began to slowly knead the taut muscles there through the thick wool of her jumper, and his skilful tongue ravaged her mouth as his lips pressed hard against her own, making them feel bruised and swollen with the intensity.  
  
Minerva reached out to stroke his side, first through his jumper, and then up under its waistband to feel the heat of his body through his crisp cotton shirt.  
  
Tom pulled his mouth away from hers long enough to moan softly as she grazed his nipple with a fingernail. "Oh, Minerva..."  
  
She smiled wickedly and let her schoolbag slide from her shoulder to the floor. It mattered little if her bottles of ink broke; after all, there was always _Reparo_.  
  
Tom stopped her smiling by again slipping his tongue into her mouth as he drew her close, crushing her. Minerva clung to him and pressed her body to his even harder, enjoying the sensation of her breasts being flattened against his chest. The starchy fabric of her brassiere rubbed her nipples, and Minerva inhaled sharply as she returned his kiss with increased enthusiasm.  
  
She ran one hand down his side and hip, and then slid it forward, between them, to cup the firmness in his trousers.  
  
Tom's lips pulled away from hers as he let his head fall back. "Mmm..." he moaned, and then he lifted his head in order to gaze at her through half-lidded eyes that nevertheless seemed to sear through her clothing like the hot blue heart of flame. "Bed?"  
  
Minerva nodded as she rubbed her hand on his trousers one last time before stepping back and grasping the hem of her jumper. She pulled it up and over her head and then hastily extricated her arms from the sleeves, folded it as neatly as time and the increasing demands of her body would allow, and knelt to set it on the floor.  
  
She straightened and turned to the bed, where Tom had sprawled upon the green coverlet, fully clothed. Minerva smiled and took a step closer, untucking her blouse from her skirt. "Aren't you forgetting something?"  
  
"What?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow.  
  
"Undressing," she replied succinctly as she unbuttoned the cuffs of her blouse.  
  
Tom smirked and crossed his arms behind his head lazily. "As my consort, I believe that is _your_ duty."  
  
She snorted. "I suppose I shall be forced to give you some...incentive, then."  
  
A slow, self-satisfied smile spread across his face. "You could _try_."  
  
Minerva's fingers felt for the bottom button of her shirt, and she slowly unfastened it, followed by the others. She kept her gaze locked with Tom's the entire time, and she smiled at him as she slid the crisp fabric from her shoulders. Tom laughed softly when she folded the blouse and set it neatly atop her sweater.  
  
Minerva arched an eyebrow at him as she drew closer to the bed and reached behind her waist for the buttons of her knee-length woollen skirt. Before she could undo them, however, his hand snaked out and gripped her wrist.  
  
"Don't."  
  
"Why?" she asked, puzzled. He tugged her down onto the bed beside him in answer, and she laughed in surprise.  
  
Tom slid his hand beneath the hem of her skirt and ran his palm along her thigh. "Well..." he smirked as his exploring fingertips found the edge of her knickers. "I wanted to experience the unique pleasure of being the first to see your new—and doubtless more interesting—underthings."  
  
Minerva felt her cheeks grow warm with a combination of embarrassment and arousal, but she laughed again and fell back against the pillows, feeling decidedly wanton. She kicked off her heavy shoes and let them fall to the floor, uncaring, for once, that they were not lined up neatly by side of the bed. She then spread her legs, still covered modestly in her thick woollen knee socks, and turned to Tom. "Well, go on then."  
  
Tom leaned over to brush a quick kiss against her lips before sitting up and slowly removing her socks. He smiled mischievously at her as he tossed the socks to the floor, willy-nilly. Minerva glared, but retaliated by reaching up to cup one of her breasts and stroking her thumb over the stiff peak showing through the thin fabric of her brassiere.  
  
Tom inhaled audibly and reached down to grasp the hem of her skirt, sliding it up around her waist. His rather loud groan at seeing her transfigured knickers made Minerva raise herself up onto her elbow so that she, too, could see. When she did, she blushed deeply. That scrap of black satin and lace barely covered her! It made her sensible, white cotton knickers look like a tent by comparison—why, she'd had no idea such underthings even existed! It was scandalous. Outrageous. And...it was having the most remarkable effect upon Tom.  
  
He gazed at her with eyes darkened with lust, breathing heavily. His normally pale skin was flushed, and he swallowed repeatedly. "Oh, Minerva," he breathed. "You're so beautiful..."  
  
Minerva smiled, feeling like a cat who's just eaten a very large canary, and lowered herself back onto the bed after reaching behind herself to unfasten her brassiere. She followed Tom's example and tossed the garment carelessly to the floor, and then reached up once more to cup one of her breasts.  
  
"You said you'd make it up to me," she purred, sliding her other hand up his thigh.  
  
He nodded wordlessly and almost sprang off the bed to undress. Had she not been so intent on his return, Minerva would have laughed to see him struggling to remove his clothing as fast as possible. In less than a minute he was back next to her, his lean, pale, body gloriously nude.  
  
Minerva lost track of time, lost track of her surroundings, lost _herself_ as he touched her. She was conscious only of Tom and of sensation—his fingers brushing her skin, his lips upon hers, his tongue, his teeth, his scent—and of grasping him, touching him, needing and wanting and _having_ him.  
  
She slowly came back to herself and lay motionless, not even opening her eyes, feeling flushed and still breathing hard. Her limbs were heavy, and her hair—in ringlets now, from perspiration—flowed over the pillows and over their warm, slick skin.  
  
Tom had collapsed atop her but now raised himself up on one elbow and bent his head to kiss her deeply. His free hand trailed up her side, caressing her ribs and tracing the curve of her breast, the lines and hollows of her shoulder.  
  
As he ran his fingertips over the hollow of her throat, Minerva opened her eyes and smiled softly. The words came, unbidden and whispered, to her lips.  
  
"I love you..."  
  


*** * ***

  
  
"I love you..."  
  
The words came to his lips unbidden, whispered into the cold, fetid air of the dungeon. He hadn't said it to her before—then or ever—but he did now, though the young man who might once have loved her was only a shadow. The words were half-meant shades of remembrance and regret.  
  
Lord Voldemort again ran his fingertips over the hollow of her throat, slid them over the slender lines of her bare shoulders and the soft curves of her breasts. Her skin was paler now than it had been in the bloom of youth, and its texture was different than in his memory. It was smooth and papery beneath his touch, like a dried petal—a beautiful, fragile reminder of age and mortality. He allowed himself to caress her cheek one last time before rising from the bed and drawing his black robes closed, hiding his skeletal, hideous frame. After he had fastened the final button, he bent down and gently pulled the edges of her filthy and tattered robes closed over her nudity.  
  
The robes were deep green, of course, the same shade the blanket she slept upon had been once, when it adorned his bed in the Slytherin dormitories. He had known the colour of her robes even before she had been captured. Minerva had honoured her promise at school and had indeed worn robes of Slytherin green to their final Yule Ball, as well as on every Hogsmeade week-end and at any other time her black Hogwarts robes were not required. Lord Voldemort was not surprised to find she still wore green robes now, over fifty years after their duel. They had quarrelled later that year, and he had never thought to release her from her bond.  
  
It had been inevitable, truly. He had been amassing followers—fellow supporters of his cause—since fifth year, and the pretence could not last forever. He had invited Minerva to join him, once she had discovered the truth, but she was too entrenched in the old man's simplistic views of right and wrong, in his misplaced notions of morality, to listen. Lord Voldemort had heard, years later, that the two of them had wed, and he had wondered bitterly if she had been in love with the old fool even then. Minerva had chosen, and she had chosen unwisely.  
  
He stepped back from the bed and gazed down at her, seeing both the stern, ageing woman she was and the impossibly young, beautiful girl she had been. His lips curved tightly in a bittersweet smile as he wondered why, precisely, he had ordered her brought to him. He had been planning this moment for some time. He had, in fact, commanded a potion be invented that would allow two people to simultaneously re-live the past specifically _for_ the purpose he had just used it—but now, after, he was uncertain why he had organised this experiment in the first place.  
  
Naturally, taking Albus Dumbledore's second-in-command captive would be a crushing blow to him, to what remained of Hogwarts, and to his side in this war. Taking his wife was deeper, more personal, but doubtless even more devastating. As for Minerva, she had made her choice long ago, and she had chosen unwisely. Waking up to discover that her "dream" of loving a boy named Tom Riddle in the past had just happened again with the man Tom had become—the man whose beliefs she had opposed for half a century—would certainly be...unpleasant...to say the least.  
  
Lord Voldemort nodded curtly to himself. This was vengeance, long overdue, and nothing more.  
  
And yet, as he closed his eyes briefly in denial of her and turned quickly from the bed, he wondered distantly why he found it so difficult to tear his gaze from her, why he found it so difficult to take that first step away. He looked back, and as he drank the sight of her in like a drowning man, he conceded that perhaps this was something more than vengeance, after all. He did not—_could_ not—love her. He did not care for her, and he certainly did not care about her. Lord Voldemort could regret, however, and remember. The potion—this "experiment"—had allowed his shadow to love her memory again, for a time. It had allowed him to forget, if briefly, that all that was cold and hard and barren in him had once matched her warmth and life.  
  
He turned from her once more and strode towards the door. He was Lord Voldemort, the most powerful wizard in the world. If he felt regret, it was but a small price to pay for immortality.  
  
The single candle had consumed itself, leaving only a puddle of molten wax upon the table. The wick, barely burning, sputtered as he passed. It would go out soon, leaving her to wake in darkness.  
  
Lord Voldemort turned the knob and opened the door, resisting the urge to turn back and look at her one final time, before darkness took them both.  
  
He stood there, indecisive, until a whisper broke the silence that lay thick in the chill and filthy room. The single word reached him, surprising and unbidden.  
  
"Tom?"  
  



End file.
